Ms. Bosselaar (carried over)

Ms Bosselaar is, I think,
a lot older than I am.  But
something about the way she lines lines up
is sibilant to the way I do,
except better and sadder.
A lot sadder.  She followed a man in a museum once,
and some others other times,
and they looked the same- people- but meant different things
just like all of her repeated lines.
She's a little older than I am,
(Ms. Bosselaar is) I think.
Why is she sad though?  I
follow her around a museum, and she looks at all the paintings unlike the man in her poem.
I watch her face, as much of it as I
can see because she turns away fast,
and ducks when it's apparent her
***
head might be blocking m view of the oil pastel,
and I guess a head might bother some people
but you are the real art here, and
I think Ms. Bosselaar knows that
as well as I do.
Or maybe she ducked out of the
way to see the art behind me,
because our eyes caught.
And as I watch her face change,
from looking at that oil to looking
at me,
I think I know her.
Then she ducks away again,
and I wonder.  Was it the nunnery?  The
death of a child, the poet lover, the-
everything is too close to be real,
and I wonder now if it was the painting that
didn't change her face at all (oh, what a watercolor!)
that really got to her. look!  Now
she's walking away, and all I see
is hair. 
I'm trying to follow you, Ms. Bosselaar, because you
are the real art,
the one I don't understand
no matter how sibilant.
Then again I'm not sure- I rarely read
in art museums.  Are these painting yours,
all frames from a long film strip?  I rarely read
the little placards- (Laure-Anne Bosselaar, all?)
It's the fun of an art museum.
Am I following correctly?
Is this where you stepped?
Why is your walking face soaking in that picture
there? I think you are a lot older
than me, and I stumble on these
polished floors that you've tread. 
I might not follow very fast, but
you are the real art, Ms. Bosselaar.